


Nettles

by cynicalwerewolf



Series: Life in a Fairy Tale [1]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicalwerewolf/pseuds/cynicalwerewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Do you know all those old folk tales where the Count tries to get rid of his only daughter's unsuitable suitor by giving him three impossible tasks?"</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Yes..."</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Don't ever try to do that with Miles. Just...don't."</i></p><p> </p><p>Simon and Ekaterin, <i>A Civil Campaign</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Nettles

**Author's Note:**

> Based mostly on the Brothers Grimm tale, _The Six Swans_ , with a few bits from the Hans Christian Anderson version of the same story. Although I cheat. Also, I use three different names for Miles. I've tried to make it clear who exactly I'm talking about, though.

Once, in a land named Barrayar, a long time ago and very far away, lived a young man named Piotr Miles Vorkosigan. He was named for his grandfathers, one of whom, Piotr Vorkosigan, was a noble of this kingdom.

The father of Piotr Miles, Aral, was a great military leader and when the boy was growing up, Aral was also regent to the young Emperor, Gregor by name, of Barrayar. Before either were born, he led a successful military campaign of expansion, which led to a nearby kingdom, Komarr, being annexed, a land heavily contested between Barrayar, and their nearest rival, Cetaganda. This kingdom had allied itself with the rival kingdom before, and as it was poor in material goods, but had a great many trade routes, Barrayar was going to take no chances of further alliance.

As in all military campaigns, mistakes happened and lives were lost, because the mistakes that happen in war tend to be fatal for someone. An officer killed noble hostages without orders from Aral, but because he was the commander, Aral was blamed for their deaths. The brother of one of the hostages was a sorcerer, and he honed his skills and waited until he felt ready to take revenge. The time came when Piotr Miles was fifteen, four years after Aral handed over full control to Emperor Gregor.

* * *

Piotr Miles slowed his horse, Ninny, to a walk, and then a complete stop. After dismounting, he quickly unsaddled and rubbed it down. He then began to prepare his camp. As he paused between tasks, the forest grew taller as he watched. He blinked. The world was still larger than it had been. He looked down at himself and saw that, no, the world hadn’t gotten larger, he had shrunk by about a foot. “How the hell?” he muttered.

Switching priorities, the new first order of business was to get out of his boots, before he tripped trying to move anywhere. Profoundly grateful for belts, because without his, he would have had a completely different problem to worry about, he sat down and pulled his boots off. He didn’t even have to use a bootjack on them, his feet and legs were now small enough to just slide right out.

With a frown, he then quickly set the rest of his clothes aright. The tunic was still fine, quite loose, but not falling off and the sleeves just needed to be rolled up. His trousers, however…he scowled. Sitting down again, he pulled off his belt and, after figuring out where it would hold his trousers up made a new hole with his knife and hacked off a good five inches of length that he no longer needed, or really wanted. Then he rolled up the legs, wishing he had some pins, then he paused and went over to his saddlebags. Yes, there was the leather repair kit. He quickly got it out and put a few stitches in his trouser legs and tunic sleeves. That would be enough to stop them from unrolling at inconvenient times. 

With his wardrobe taken care of for the time being, he finished making camp. It took longer, now that his legs were shorter and his weight was off. He tried not to think of what he had seen when he had fetched water from the stream. The face that had looked up at him from the stream was the same as always, not classically handsome, but animated, with grey eyes dominating under shaggy black hair, but that made the too small, slightly hunched body worse to see. And he was so light that every time the wind blew he felt like he was going to fly away.

Sleep was long in coming to him that night. He only prayed that no predators, either two or four legged attacked, because his two swords were all sized for a man who was nearly six-feet tall, instead of four-foot something, and all a dagger was going to do was get him laughed at before he was killed.

* * *

He woke before dawn, and instead of trying to get back to sleep, he carefully coaxed his fire back to life, prepared and ate a swift breakfast, and began to repack his gear. By the time dawn broke, he was prepared to leave, and as soon as there was enough light for Ninny to see by he was on the horse’s back and they were riding back to Vorbarr Sultana at an easy, ground-eating lope.

Piotr Miles had left the capital city a bit before noon and had camped before sunset. He had also been in much less of a hurry at that time than he was now. He reached Vorbarr Sultana well before noon, much to his considerable relief. He was certain that he had been stalked just before he left the forest. The fields around the city were much harder to sneak around in, although he knew it could be done. He smiled for the first time since he had been changed. The look on his cousin Ivan’s face when Piotr Miles had done so when they were ten would always stay with him.

As he entered the city, he swiftly lost his good humor. Everyone he saw either pretended not to see him or made warding signs against spirits or fae creatures. Fairly soon, the people he saw who weren’t immediately looking away began collecting behind him, gathering like a murder of crows, whispering all the while.

Seeing the writing on the wall, he decided an expeditious retreat would be the best option, and while the people who lived in this quarter would know the area better, if he was able to get to a place where he didn’t have to worry about trampling people he’d be able to retreat at Ninny’s full speed. The Vorkosigans had never been nobles who would treat the lives of commoners casually. Even the bad Vorkosigans always remembered the tale of the cruel wizard and its obvious conclusion, which was essentially ‘They outnumber you’, and Piotr Miles had always been a good Vorkosigan.

As soon as he found a convenient crossing road he kicked Ninny into a quick trot and turned. Behind him, he heard the mob’s muttering change pitch, reminding him of a pack of hunting hounds catching the scent of their prey.

As soon as he turned out of the cross-road onto the road out of the city, he urged Ninny into a full canter and, as the mob was still too close, into an all-out gallop. Fortunately, the people on the road scattered as they saw him, and within a few endless minutes he escaped from the grasp of the out-flung reaches of the city and was rushing headlong back through the fields of the countryside.

After determining that he wasn’t being followed, he slowed Ninny down to a relaxed walk and pondered the words the mob had flung at him. _Forest spirit_ , well, he could understand that with his new appearance. The same went for _horse-thieving fae _. But _oath-breaker___? He had broken no oaths.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that Ninny’s sudden stumble caught him unawares, and he wasn’t able to catch himself. In the second before he hit the ground, he thought Wonderful. I get through a mob without a scratch, and then I fall off my horse when he’s walking. The impact of the ground and the sudden pain of his arm breaking stopped all thoughts for a brief moment.

While doing his best to set his arm, by himself, and to splint it using only the materials in his saddlebags, Piotr Miles lost himself again in trying to figure out how his arm had broken so easily. He had fallen well, and it shouldn’t have broken at all. But instead it had snapped like a green twig. Even after checking Ninny’s feet and seeing that they were fine, he decided not to try and scrabble back onto the horse, and took the reins to lead Ninny back to the forest.

* * *

After a day of being followed by things with various motivations, whether hostile or not, Piotr Miles had finally had enough when he and Ninny made it into the shelter of the forest just before sunset. Turning to where he knew his unseen audience was, he shouted, “Will whatever the fucking hell you are come out and stop sneaking around behind my back?”

He wasn’t expecting what ended up happening. A pair of goshawks broke through the forest canopy to land on the ground. A lynx and a fox broke into the clearing, then a pair of wolves, and a young adult buck, and finally two bears, which looked to his startled eyes like they were twenty feet tall. A blue tit that had already been there chirruped in a fashion he interpreted as, for some reason, amusedly reproachful. Before he could do more than jump backwards and squeak in startlement, the sun touched the horizon, and before his eyes the beasts changed. The forms of the hawks, lynx, fox, blue tit, and wolves expanded and the bears’ forms shrunk. All of them twisted in ways that made him sick to watch.

Just as seeing the forms twist became unbearable, they resolved into the forms of his family and family friends. Yes, friends, even if they were commoners and officially family servants. His Da and cousin Gregor (…and Emperor, he had forced himself never to forget that, although the concept of Emperor was, itself, flexible) had been the two wolves. His Ma, Cordelia, had been the lynx. Simon Illyan, the Emperor’s spymaster and a minor sorcerer, the fox. The hawks were Kou and Drou, the blue tit his Aunt Alys, and the bears Armsman Bothari, who was cursed to obey Cordelia in all things, and…Gran’da Piotr, who was distinctly displeased. And Piotr Miles knew without asking that Grandda Piotr was displeased with him. He did his best to draw himself up taller without making himself look shorter and was certain he made a complete mess of it.

Cordelia recognized Gran’da’s threatening posture, and seemed to appear between Piotr Miles and Piotr’s approach. Before he could take a step, she said, with the disappointed tone only a mother could achieve, “Don’t do or say anything to your grandson that you will regret, Count Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan.”

Not looking at all chastened, but rather looking like someone calculating the odds of successfully carrying out an attack, Piotr stepped forward. Without saying a word, Aral was at Cordelia’s side, and simply gave his father a stern look. Piotr spat out, with a look like he had bitten into a green fruit, “ _That_ is not my grandson and heir, and it had better not use my name,” before turning on his heel and striding off into the forest.

Piotr Miles felt his heart break, but was careful not to show it. His parents shared a glance, but before anyone (well, cousin Ivan, he was the only one oblivious enough to do so) could ask him a stupid question along the lines of _are you all right_ , he asked the even more obvious question, “How did the transformation happen, and why?” In magic, and this was definitely magic, why was often more important than how. Although from the look on his parents’ and Simon’s face, they might actually be equally key in this case.

Aral grimaced, and said, “It was the sorcerer, Adrian Galen, brother of Rebekah Galen, who cursed us. He walked into the Council of Counts, paralyzed everyone with a look, explained his reasons for doing this,” Aral’s tone and the look on Gregor’s face communicated that ‘explained’ was shorthand for ‘ranted at great length, in great detail, for about half-an-hour longer than anyone could focus’, “And finished by throwing a jug of blood on me.” Aral’s grimace deepened, and he said, “He seemed quite surprised that I transformed, though.

“Wasn’t supposed to affect you,” Bothari growled. When everyone glanced at him, he said, “We’ll only be human when the sun is touching the horizon. Thought I’d explain.” When no one’s gaze left, he continued, “Being cursed for seventeen years, you develop a sensitivity. It was supposed to affect Lord Piotr, but something interfered. The blood’s the interesting part. Had to be emotionally connected. Strong connection, a son’s connection.”

Simon paled, and said, “I know where the blood came from, but you won’t like it, m’lord…Aral.” When Aral motioned for him to continue, he simply said, “Mark.”

Aral looked grim, Cordelia frowned. Piotr Miles glanced at the other two of his generation, and saw that Gregor and Ivan were as confused as he was. Piotr Miles knew by Barrayaran naming convention that Aral’s second son by tradition was to be named Mark Pierre, but there had never been a second son…that he had heard of. He took the initiative, and asked, “Is this Mark my brother?” All the confirmation he needed was in his parents’ faces. Quietly, he asked, “How much younger?”

Aral said, “Six minutes. You were to be named a week from the birth, but he was dead in the cradle the morning after.”

Which told all the Barrayarans everything they needed to know. Cordelia muttered something about Barrayarans, but Piotr Miles understood better than his foreign mother could. The kingdom of Bethara didn’t have the profusion of spirits and fae Barrayar had, and if Mark had been replaced by a changeling-construct it would be reason enough never to speak the name. To give the name of a child to a changeling would bind the never-lived thing into the family, and prevent the child from ever coming home, drawn back by the parent’s love. Piotr Miles suspected that the actual situation was far more complicated, but-he shoved that whole problem to a corner of his mind. Also in passing, he thought, _Guess that explains the light bones. I’ve got bird bones, instead of human ones_. Glancing at the sun, and mentally swearing, he asked Bothari and Simon, who had the best idea of the workings of the curse, “How can the curse be lifted?”

Simon answered him. He said, “You are the only person who can lift the curse, because it can only be lifted by someone involved but not fully included. To be completely frank, young Piotr, I am very dubious about your chances of fulfilling the requirements.”

Piotr Miles knew he had an extremely offended look on his face, and Simon caught it. He elaborated, “There are two requirements. The first is that you must weave shirts of nettles, one for each of us. The second is that you may not speak, write, or make any type of vocal sound once you start weaving the shirts until you are finished with the last. And before you say that you can do it, may I remind you that you have yet to remain silent for sixty minutes, much less the six year period you have in which to weave shirts.”

Piotr Miles set his mouth stubbornly, and said, “I can do it.” At the amused looks that his Ma, Drou, and Aunt Alys were giving him, he said defiantly, “I can!”

Alys said, “Piotr, dear, besides the issue of your silence, there is the minor fact that you have never woven anything in your life. The closest to making clothing you’ve gotten has been repairing occasional wear on your own. And that was only because you decided that you couldn’t possibly be worse at mending than your mother.” Alys ignored the slightly amused, slightly annoyed hmph Cordelia let out, saying, “You are good at a great many things, Cordelia, but even you admit you are hopeless at anything to do with fabric.”

The sun was almost fully below the horizon, Pio- Miles, he decided. He would be Miles, until his Gran’da gave him back the name Piotr with his own Voice. Miles decided to cut through things, and he said, determinedly, “I have three weeks while the bird-bones in my arm heal. I know there’s a village around here, I can watch the women weaving, and you can explain the mechanisms, Aunt Alys. Then,” he shrugged, “Then I start the practical learning.”

As his family transformed around him, he could see incredulity mingled with faint hope.

Neither emotion was particularly comforting.

* * *

Cordelia watched Piotr Miles bartering for goods in exchange for Ninny and his tack. The merchant was clearly an experienced horse-trader and had the Barrayaran prejudice against anyone they considered fae or spirit. Despite that, young Piotr was very definitely coming out ahead in their bargaining, although he was probably going to spend all his silver and copper. She couldn’t help thinking, with a tinge of sadness, that this transformation had granted him a focus that she had never seen him apply before. A focus she had always known existed in him, but that had never come to the fore.

Grooming her red fur, she pondered the strange magic that could produce such results. Bethara had not had fae inhabitants in human memory, and the spirits who had once made the desert their home had intermixed with the humans, to the point where it was uncertain who had what amount of spirit blood. Almost all Betharans had small magics, but they were magics of enhancement and knowledge, not magics that would transform a man into a beast. Coming to Barrayar with its profusion of fae and spirits and where the earth-shattering magics were still occasionally cast had been a profound shock. The ease with which young Piotr had accepted the reasoning for never mentioning Mark had surprised her, although it really shouldn’t have. Piotr was Barrayaran to the core.

Casting a jaundiced eye on the pile of supplies Piotr had bargained for she wondered how he expected to get everything back to the forest. Then she saw the draft horse, homing charm braided into its mane, pulling a small cart. The merchant’s workers piled the supplies into the cart, and Piotr pulled himself onto the driver’s seat one-handed. Once he was settled he clucked to the horse to get it moving, and started back to the forest.

Once they were outside of the village, Piotr turned towards where she was pacing alongside the cart, and said, “You are welcome to ride on the cart, milady Mother.” When she tensed to jump, he added, “Just don’t land on the loom.”

She landed neatly on a bag of-horse feed? Why did he have horse feed-oh, so he could keep the draft horse until his arm was healed enough to unpack the wagon. She didn’t see anything remotely resembling any loom she knew of, but was glad that Piotr had been sensible enough to buy a loom, rather than attempting to make one himself. Time was too short for that.

She padded up to sit beside her son. Seemingly without thought, he relaxed the reins and lifted his arm to put around her. She accepted the touch, especially knowing how completely rattled he had to be to invite such intimacy so casually. The horse’s ears twitched, but when she stayed where she was, they went forward again. She began purring as she felt the tension in Piotr’s body. He relaxed slightly, but the tension never went away.

She wondered if it ever would.

* * *

Five weeks after the transformation and Miles was ready to begin weaving. He had spent (and tried not to think of the time as wasted) two weeks learning how to spin thread from nettles. That had been a process of experimentation itself, because even though Aunt Alys knew the basic mechanisms of spinning and weaving, nettles were an unfamiliar type of fiber for her.

The loom was also a tool he was unfamiliar with. It wasn’t a floor loom of the type he was most familiar with. The trader had acted as intermediary for a village granny, who had told him that since he needed easy transport, this ‘backstrap loom’ would be a much better, and more inexpensive, loom than even the already primitive weighted loom. Primitive it might be, but it was certainly easier to lift. He fastened the functional top to a convenient tree at the edge of the small clearing by the stream he had been getting water from.

Suddenly, he heard something crashing through the forest. Keeping an ear out, he quickly realized it was coming towards him. The flock of young ravens that had been resting in the undergrowth around him burst into flight. To his ears, their caws sounded, not just like caws, but also like ‘Beware! Beware!’ Startled, he tried to focus on the crashing sound and something drew tight in his mind, and suddenly he was snapped out of his body and into the mind of the wild boar which was heading right towards him. His mind was filled with the sensations of _‘Rip, tear, rend, gore, trample, rend, blood, blood, blood’_ and underneath that litany was an angry whisper of _‘Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill’_. He broke free.

His mind might still have been reeling, but his body wanted to live. He was up the tree before he was even aware that he had moved. Profoundly grateful that he hadn’t fastened the waist strap, he reached the sturdy branches just as the boar broke into the clearing. To his surprise, the boar didn’t stop its charge, but ran headfirst into the tree he was in, sending it shaking. It backed up and charged a second time. The shaking wasn’t as bad, but it still sent threatening tremors up the tree. As it backed up for a third charge, a goshawk burst through the roof of the forest, and performed a raking dive, scoring the boar’s back before winging upwards. He realized, as it was joined by a second and was setting up a second such dive, that it was Kou or Drou. In the mental chatter he was receiving from the boar, there was a brief conflict between the two threads, before the _kill_ thread strengthened.

He felt an unreasonable flash of anger, that he didn’t need to be defended. Common sense asserted itself, of course he needed to be defended, because there was no way that a four foot eight, eighty pounds soaking wet person could take on a wild boar. He wouldn’t have hunted a wild boar without help when he was bigger. And of course they were defending him, he was the only person who could turn them back into humans.

It still rankled that he had to be defended, though.

The boar had been slightly distracted by Kou and Drou at first, but it was clear that whatever was driving the beast wasn’t any form of natural instinct. It charged the tree again. Just as suddenly as Kou and Drou had appeared, his Da, Ivan, and Gregor charged out of the forest. And Miles would never discount the fighting prowess of deer again, even knowing that this particular one had the mind of a human. There was a lot of power in those hind legs. Even if the final blow to the boar was Bothari seemingly appearing out of nowhere to break the boar’s neck with one swipe, there was no doubt that it had been weakened by the attacks the wolves and the deer, as well as distracted, however minimally it may have been, by the goshawks.

One of the goshawks, Miles could tell it was Kou from the way it flew, flapped up and gave him a look. Miles could ‘hear’ it comment _‘Looks fine. Good, won’t have to explain to Aral that his son got hurt on my watch.’_

Miles decided to comment, and said, “You know, I am able to take care of myself. And what you did was one of the stupidest things I’ve seen. What would have happened if your bad wing had given out?” And it was faintly disturbing to Miles how easily he was able to say wing in place of arm.

 _‘And he’s able to complain. Always a good sign.'_ Kou said as if noting something.

“I am _not_ complaining, I am scolding. There _is_ a difference,” Miles said firmly. Kou squawked and almost forgot how to fly. As he climbed down, Miles told him, “After I tell my Lord Father that the boar was sent, we’re headed out. I’m not going to stay here waiting with a target painted on my back.” Kou acknowledged. That was the wonderful thing about the people his parents collected. Once they got an idea into their heads, there were no useless questions or complaints. Just action.

* * *

The loom filled Miles’s world. He began and ended where it did, so focused was he on his weaving. The shuttle was a part of his hand, and the backstrap united him with the loom. Sometimes it was hard for him to believe that he had never even known there was such a thing as a backstrap loom two years ago, that he had never woven, or spun thread from nettles, so much a part of his life were these activities now.

Three shirts, well, two and a half actually, he was currently weaving the back of the third now, and was about half done. The shirt was still too clumsy for his taste, although everyone was telling him how amazingly he had improved, especially considering his complete lack of experience. He still didn’t think his work was good enough.

Gregor’s presence tickled the edges of his mind. He drew himself out of the world of the loom, and back into the physical one. Gregor was always polite about not impinging on Miles’s privacy unless it was absolutely necessary, or Miles invited him in. Miles, in turn, was polite enough to not read thoughts that weren’t directly sent to him, but reading emotions was less intrusive and very necessary, given that Galen hadn’t stopped sending assaults. In fact, he thought, it was about time for another one soon. From the general tenor of Gregor’s emotions, whatever brought him here was something that he felt would be upsetting to Miles.

 _‘Piotr’_ , Gregor thought at him.

 _‘Yes, Gregor, what is it?’_ Miles responded. Even if he had decided to think of himself as Miles, he hadn’t told anyone because he was hoping for Gran’da Piotr’s acceptance before he made any permanent changes. Gran’da Piotr general disposition was improving, but hadn’t been helped by Illyan’s pronouncement that Miles was doing something he had never heard of anyone achieving; somehow he was integrating the curse into himself. While it had begun as something imposed on Miles, it was steadily becoming a part of him. Illyan didn’t think that even lifting the curse on everyone else would lift it from Miles. Matters had been bad enough when Gran’da Piotr had thought Miles had made a bargain to keep his form human all the time, but to discover that even without some sort of foul bargain Miles would remain this way for good was devastating. He was only starting to make peace with the fact, and with Miles. The old bear had taken to a solitary lifestyle, only occasionally meeting with anyone, but Miles sometimes felt him watching. Hopefully they would be able to discuss matters soon.

Gregor’s next words would shatter that hope forever. _‘It’s your Grandfather, Piotr. We’ve just found out that he’s very ill. If you could-‘_

Miles was out of the loom and headed on the bearing Gregor gave him before Gregor could even finish the thought.

The journey to his gran’da’s side was a blur to Miles. If it hadn’t been for the pain his legs and chest when he finally arrived at the correct location, Miles would have almost sworn that he had encountered a Twilight Crossing, but not only was it the wrong time, his legs were swearing bloody vengeance and his lungs were informing him that as soon as they were back in shape, they would be joining his legs.

Miles didn’t care. He could feel Gran’da’s thoughts, and not only did he know that Piotr had been ill for a long time and no one had been able to tell because of his solitary lifestyle, but also that he wouldn’t last out the day, no matter how hard he fought. All Miles could do was witness, and offer whatever comfort he could.

All the rest of the day, he sat by the bear, offering what soothing thoughts he could, trying to help the incoherent mind gain some focus. He saw things he wished he never had to know, but knew would always haunt him.

As sunset arrived and Piotr’s form shifted, his eyes met Miles’s. He breathed, “I’m sorry, boy…” and died.

* * *

Simon Illyan padded into the featureless area Piotr Miles, and he should begin thinking of him simply as Piotr, had settled on for weaving. Two weeks after Count Piotr died and Piotr Miles hadn’t communicated with anyone, was barely eating, and was paying absolutely no attention to his surroundings. And considering Galen’s usual timing, they were overdue for some controlled animal to come crashing through the forest and try to kill young Piotr. Whose early detection abilities were severely compromised.

And that led to a conversation in their fifteen minutes of humanity that led to the decision that Simon was the best person to talk with young Piotr. Personal, but not as personal as his parents, cousins, or even Bothari would have been. So, Uncle Simon was given his marching orders by his commanders, and he was off to beat some sense into Piotr Miles. Figuratively speaking, as it was very difficult for a fox to beat a human into submission.

Mentally he shook his head. It had been difficult to adjust to life as a fox. He hadn’t realized how much he used the combination of magics his herb-witch mother and wind spirit father had given him. He could feel the magic, but couldn’t use it even as a human, except for his memory, the only legacy of his father’s blood. Wind spirits never forgot where they had been or what they had experienced, and it had quickly become apparent in his childhood that Simon had inherited the memory of his father’s people. With some tutoring when his father had been able to stay in the area, he had been able to maintain his sanity. He had been fortunate that his father knew about him, as madness was the lot of a wind spirit half-breed whose parent didn’t know about them or their inheritance of memory.

His mother had taught him the spells she knew, and he had been recruited into Ezar’s army as a young man, where he caught the eye of Captain Negri, his predecessor. While extensive trials had shown that Simon didn’t have an aptitude for any magic but the simplest, in spy work simple spells were all that were needed, and remembering everything he sensed was quite an asset. While his status as a half-breed was a stigma, enough time had passed since the Cetagandan invasion that had led to an increase in the underlying prejudice against those with mixed blood.

And two generations after Prince Xav disinherited himself from the Imperial Throne by marrying one of those who Barrayarans still referred to as ‘mongrel Betherans’, one of the two surviving members of that branch brought home another as wife. Times had changed, he thought with slight wonder. Although… there probably would be outcry against young Piotr when he got home, as he was clearly demonstrating signs of spirit-like magic, even if it wasn’t the magic of any spirit Simon had encountered.

Again shaking his head mentally, Simon took a long look at Piotr Miles, and compared his current appearance to that of two weeks ago. And he didn’t like what he saw. Beneath the tattered remnants of his clothing the boy was too thin. He moved as though he was a thousand years old. Snuffling, he bared his teeth. Piotr Miles was usually fastidious, and he was filthy now.

 _‘Piotr’_ , Simon thought at the young man. There was no response. _‘Piotr’_ , he thought with more volume. Again, there was no response. A warning tone entering his thoughts, he said, _‘Piotr Miles’_.

He might as well have been trying to talk to a stone. Grateful that this was taking place after the boy hadn’t made any sort of vocalization in two years, he stole over to the weaving figure. Leaping up on Piotr’s left shoulder, he bit the corresponding ear and gripped with his claws through the jumping gyrations the young man performed.

 _‘What was that for?’_ Piotr asked, in a tone that would have been angry if there had been more energy, but instead came out sullen.

_‘I called your name three times, Piotr.’_

_‘Miles.’_

Simon paused, and said, _‘Pardon?’_

_‘Miles. I told myself that I wouldn’t be Piotr until he gave me the name back with his own breath and voice. He didn’t, so I’m just Miles.’_

Simon recognized that he had just been handed part of the answer to what was bothering Miles. _‘Very well, Miles. We’re all worried about you, you know.’_

 _‘Yes,’_ was the sullen reply. _‘You can’t be human again if I don’t manage to do this. You’ve just had a prime example of my abilities to help.’_

And there was the other main part of the puzzle. Two actually, anger and resentment, combined with guilt. Talk about poisonous combinations. Simon nipped Miles’s ear, gently this time, and said, _‘If all we felt for you was a need to keep you around for your weaving, would I be here, trying to talk with you?’_ Before Miles could answer, Simon said, _‘This is what I feel…’_ and let Miles feel his pain, admiration, irritation, affection, and desire to make everything painful vanish.

Miles turned his head and began weeping into Simon’s fur. As he caught the whispers of thought Miles was unconsciously projecting, he knew he had been the right person to make the first approach. It would probably take Gregor next, then his mother, and then his father, to help this get better, but the first step on the path to healing had been made.

* * *

Three years. Half the time allotted to breaking the curse had past. Miles pondered where he had wandered. His avoidance of Ser Galen’s animal slaves had taken him out of Barrayar into Komarr. The further he wandered in Komarr, the longer there was between attacks, as if Galen had a difficult time believing his quarry was coming anywhere near the Komarran lands. Recently, he had accidentally wandered into a Twilight Crossing near the South Komarran Mountain Pass (nobody claimed the Komarran naming scheme was particularly imaginative), probably established as part of the Cetagandan advance, as it had led to a forest in an area that was disputed territory, with Barrayar claiming it as a part of Sergyar, while the Cetagandan Empire was trying to expand into it.

He suppressed a shudder as he remembered what had driven him south and west, away from the eastern Komarran border. It was disturbing enough that it had led him to believe that wandering in Cetagandan claimed lands was safer than trying to re-cross into Komarr.

On the surface, it had appeared to be an ordinary deep forest. Hell, people who had never encountered a forest before probably would have considered it ordinary, but the fact that the surrounding land was typical Komarran steppes, without any transition from sparse grassland to deep woods was eerie enough. The fact that there were no Komarran forests was another point of concern, but even without those facts there had been something _wrong_ about that forest. Everyone had felt it, and no one had wanted to actually enter. Drou had flown as far as she could without needing to set down in it and had reported that the center point appeared to be a tower.

Miles knew without having to be told that the tower had been Ser Galen’s sanctum. He also knew that the magic the sorcerer was practicing was poisoning the land, twisting the underlying fabric of reality. The lands had been bad enough Gregor was considering giving a slice of eastern Komarr, and a bit of the Sergyaran contested area to the Cetagandans, just so their haut-elven race could cleanse the land, as it was very firmly entrenched in the second stage of taint.

In the distance, he heard the sound of hunting hounds. As he listened, the quality of the sound changed into a deep belling sound. The hounds had caught the scent of something. Shaking his head and keeping an ear out, he continued his weaving.

 _‘Miles!’_ His Aunt Alys’s voice rang in his head. Miles looked up sharply, looking for the blue tit that was her current form. Before he could spot her, she said, _‘They’re hunting Ivan, and the-‘_ she cut off a term he was certain was less than ladylike. She continued, _‘The young fool is trying to escape them on his own.’_

Stretching his senses, Miles found Ivan, who was indeed being chased by the pack of hounds. _‘Ivan,’_ he said, tactfully leaving off the _you idiot_ that wanted to be tacked on. _‘Lead them to me.’_

Ivan said, _‘These are Cetagandan hunting hounds, Miles! That means they’ve got a Cetagandan hunting party with them. Are you really interested in coming to the attention of the Cetas? If you are-‘_

Miles cut him off, _‘Just lead the pack to me. I don’t need another death on my conscience.’_

Ivan gave the impression of rolling his eyes, and said, _‘On your head be it. And you really need to do something about that guilt complex you have,’_ and cut off the line of communication, before Miles could even think _I don’t have a guilt complex_. Rolling his eyes, he decided to get as much more weaving as he could before the pack came.

He heard Ivan before he came leaping into the clearing Miles was in. Miles kept weaving until he heard the hunting pack almost reach the area and just before they entered, he turned.

The dogs were beautifully conditioned scent hounds, he noticed idly before he turned his full attention on backing them down from the hunt. They yipped, whined, and the strongest of them tried to push back, a reaction he had never encountered before in any animal. Redoubling his focus, he stared the lead animals down, his attention primarily focused on the alpha bitch and dog who led the pack. The more he backed them down, asserting his dominance in their minds, the more the rest of the pack also reacted the way he wanted them to.

His mind was so focused on the pack that the hand falling on his shoulder and gripping it tightly came as a complete surprise. He started and was turned around to face a Cetagandan of middling height, wearing face paint. For a moment they stared at each other, both assessing. Miles tried to read the face beneath the paint while he got a sense of the shape of the man’s mind. He came up with not cruel, possibly sympathetic. So, tactics were mouse, not mink, and quickly, before the other Cetagandans came up and maybe altered things.

Bringing his fear to the fore, he shrunk down and assumed a piteous expression, hoping that this all worked out.

* * *

“You are aware, Honored Lord, that the creature was playing on your sympathy, yes?” Dag Benin’s chief huntsman, Kan, asked.

Dag Benin permitted himself a slight smile. The huntsman had been with the Benin family all his life, and had known Dag as a child. Admittedly, by haut standards and even those of the spirit born, Dag was still young, a disadvantage of being purely human. But despite that handicap, Dag Benin had managed to finesse his branch of the Benin line to a middle ranked ghem-nobility, with his sons’ chances of advancement to higher levels quite good.

Of course, the other ghem-lords would be discussing Lord Benin re’Thir’s absurd sentimentality for a long time, especially after this latest incident. After all, solving murders was an interesting quirk, although his neighbors felt he would be better served not then doing his best to bring the perpetrator to justice, especially when the victim was low ranked and the perpetrator was high ranked. Marrying someone for affection was odd, even if it showed good political sense in a pure human wedding a spirit, even if the spirit was a mere forest leshye of no important family. But showing mercy to a potential _geshe-ki_ was more oddness than most of them would be able to understand.

But he was damned if he was going to kill something that looked like a child out of suspicion if it could be avoided.

Focusing his attention back on Kan, Dag said, “Yes, I know full well that he was playing on my sympathy. But at least he had enough empathy to play on my sympathy, which eliminates most _geshe-ki_ and powerful inimical spirits and fae. And what it doesn’t eliminate will be stopped by the iron on the wrists, the circle of rowan and holly ashes, and the smoke from the fire of _tirkana_ and _leashen_ wood." He might have been sympathetic, but he wasn’t stupid. Cetagandans feared little, but there were creatures they feared, chief among them the beings that were known in subject, ghem, and haut populations as breath-drinkers, _geshe-ki_ , and Ancients.

The old huntsman relaxed, and said, “This strongly eases my mind.” He smiled as he went to see to the hounds, and said, “I have never known a ghem-lord who was as interested in rescuing those distressed, but by the gods, I would serve no other lord.”

Meanwhile, across the camp, Gregor was asking Miles _‘Are you certain you know what you’re doing?’_ Miles could tell that Gregor wanted to come into the camp, but was holding back because that would accomplish nothing. One reason Miles had never wanted to be Emperor was because that seemed to get in the way of doing, well, much of anything. Even a Count’s heir had more freedom. They’d had that discussion, during the dark nights when Miles was lying awake.

In the spirit of those discussions, Miles answered, _‘No, but here’s better than Komarr, as long as nobody tries to take preemptive action against the potential threat of a_ geshe-ki, _whatever that is. And as long as we’re in the forest, the whole lot of you can come charging to the rescue.’_

 _‘It’s what happens after they take you out of the forest that worries me. I do know they burn suspected_ geshe-ki _at the stake. Are you that anxious to find out what it feels like to be burned alive?’_

 _‘No, but…I trust the ghem-lord in charge of this hunting party.’_ Miles shrugged, causing the iron shackles to clink slightly. They’d been doing so as he wove, but when Gregor started speaking, he had taken a brief break. He picked up the spindle and started spinning. _‘Don’t ask me how, or why, I just know he won’t take any offensive action, and won’t permit any such action without strong reason. Even from the haut.’_

There was silence. Finally, Gregor said, _‘I trust your instincts when it comes to people Miles. I just- don’t want to lose you.’_

Deliberately trying to lighten the mood, Miles sent a smile and said, _‘Don’t worry, even if something does happen, I’m sure I’ll find a way to stick around.’_

 _‘Horrors,’_ was Gregor’s wry reply.

* * *

The haut-Emperor Fletchir Giaja looked up as his Consort, Rian Degtiar, and first Spring Bride, Pel Navarr, entered the room. Knowing that there was only one thing of interest in the palace that would necessitate an immediate discussion, he asked, “And how is the interesting specimen ghem-Lord Benin re’Thir brought to the attention of the haut?”

Rian smiled slightly at him, and said, “It is not a new type of spirit or fae, my husband, although it is interesting. The subject appears to be a young Barrayaran male, who is suffering a curse. I feel his reactions and actions may require further study, but not close watch.” She paused, and said, “However, Hyacinth Lady Pel Navarr may have perceived more than I.” Rian began to leave, explaining, “I have new blood to integrate into the Crèche store, my husband. If you would please require the Constellations of Vierre and Mesthengre to specify members for cross-Constellation children, it would please me greatly.”

Frowning slightly at the ‘his’, Giaja watched her leave. Turning to the Bride of the New Spring his mother had selected with him in mind when he was but a child and his father still living, he asked, “Is young Rian accurate in her assessment?”

Pel bowed her head, and said, “While I do not feel the Barrayaran a direct threat, I am not willing to let him wander free. He is not Ancient-possessed, I am certain, but he is dangerous.”

“He?” Giaja asked. Servitor races were rarely accorded the status of being a full entity. They were simply too transient.

“Yes, he. While cursed, this Barrayaran child has accessed the magic of the curse and used it to awaken dormant gifts from his own being. When we were assessing him, I felt we were assessed, and when we gave his mind a slight probe, he deflected it quite skillfully. If we had not been haut, it is quite likely we would have been fooled into thinking the information provided by the probe was accurate. Also, Rian has developed an interest. While it is currently intellectual, it seems unlikely to be safe to keep him here.”

“Where would you suggest, Lady Pel?” Giaja asked. His Hyacinth Lady’s assessments were generally sound, and she had more experience than he, which was why he deferred to her judgment when she offered it.

“Personally, I would suggest with ghem-Lord Benin re-Thir as a household servant. It allows for observation with less danger to the advancement of the haut should we have misjudged this Barrayaran and may provide an adequate test of Lord Benin’s abilities should he be noninimical to the goals of the haut.” She smiled, and said, “I will admit, the young man has affected me as well. He has a very strong mind, and there is something about him that is either fascinating or maddening, and I am fascinated.”

Giaja bowed his head to Pel, and said, “Very well, my Lady. I shall inform Lord Benin of the new member of his household in audience tomorrow.”

* * *

Miles was incredibly glad that he had weaving to do, because otherwise this cell would be driving him crazy. There was nothing in the cell except for a pile of straw and a bucket. The cell was scrupulously clean, and given the lack of sound, so was the rest of the cell block. In the few days he’d been here, the guards never entered the cell, and whenever they brought food, it was always pushed just close enough that he could grasp the edge of the tray. And he wasn’t able to escape the scent of ghostwood and whatever the other wood that was kept burning in braziers was. So, he focused on his weaving. Fortunately, the Cetagandans had brought all his completed weaving with him.

The only thing that broke the routine of the place was the visit by the haut ladies. He was trying not to think about them, because they were...dazzling. Only now did he understand the stories about men and women seduced across the borders of Faerie to become the willing slaves of the elves. Even veiled, and glamoured, the two women had been indescribable. Only knowledge of how hopeless his case was stopped him from offering himself to them.

He heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and looked up. A guard and an elaborately liveried bald servant, of a heritage he couldn’t quite establish, were standing at the door. The guard held a ring of keys and opened the door. When he didn’t immediately move, the servant said, “Come,” in a soft alto voice.

Picking up the tunics he’d completed and stowing the loom, he did, under the impatient gaze of the guard and the bland one of the servant. He followed them out of the cellblock into progressively more elegantly beautiful surroundings, which nevertheless were still servants’ quarters. The odd servant stopped at a door about three levels up, and a maze of corridors away from the entrance to the dungeon. Getting out- her?- keys, she unlocked the door, and pulled out a tunic, a pair of trousers, and some smallclothes, the outerwear much simpler than her own but still in white and grey, and handed them to him.

She said, “This is not the exact clothing of your new station, but until you reach your Honored master’s lands, you are to wear them and so display your status under the auspices of the Star Crèche.”

Which meant absolutely nothing to him, but as long as they weren’t executing him, he could put up with it. Especially as it gave him the opportunity to learn what it did mean. He waited before stripping, suspecting that there would be something more required here. He was correct, the servant and soldier accompanied him to a bathing chamber, and then to a barber, both of which got Miles on the way to feeling truly civilized for the first time in three years. Then he was taken to a room lined with curtained cubbies, assigned to one, and left alone. He pulled the curtain, even though he knew he should get used to the lack of privacy a servant’s life brought.

After he finished dressing, he decided to do what he had always done best. Poke around. He wouldn’t go too far from the servant’s room, but he had the feeling he was close to some of the answers he wanted. Two turns down the hallways, and he found a few of them.

He felt the presence of the odd servant and an unfamiliar mind. Using a mental technique he thought would hide his mind from others, he crept close to the corner and listened. A male voice was saying, “-interfering in the interests of security!”

The servant’s calm alto said, “While the importance of security may not be denied, your suggestions lack propriety and have little apparent benefit. The Star Crèche’s interests must not be compromised.”

The other party snarled, “Damn bunch of interfering-“

“If your mother had chosen to obey procedure, you would not be in the unfortunate position you are, ghem-Lord Naru. The proprieties are not only for the benefit of the haut, but benefit all citizens of Cetaganda: haut or ghem: human, fae, spirit, or hybrid. As the Separated chose to deliberately flout proper procedure, the primary Naru line is dead, and all are shamed for it.”

Lord Naru said, “And I suppose you are any better off? Ba are sterile as any fae-human or fae-spirit hybrid.”

“That may be so,” the servant, apparently a ba, said. Then it, yes, the voice had to be an it, Miles did know all ba were sexless, continued, “However, as ba, I advance the goals of Cetaganda by existence, any other services are simply efficient use of all available resources.” Leaving the obvious unsaid, the ba stopped the conversation by the simple expedient of walking off. 

Crossing his fingers and hoping not all ba were hairless in addition to being sexless, he ducked into a closet marked with a frame decorated very similarly to the supply closet the ba had pulled his livery from. His luck held for that, at least, the room was another linen closet. As Lord Naru walked by, he snuck a look out. The man was certainly a hybrid, he had the eyes, aura, and hair of a powerful river-spirit, but the facial features of a haut.

And that explained the comment about the death of the primary Naru line. Miles didn’t know much about haut society, but he did know enough about ghem law to know that any fae hybrid automatically inherited and their line held primacy. Human-spirit hybrids could breed true with fae, but the offspring of true humans and true spirits with fae were always sterile. A fae-spirit or fae-human hybrid meant the death of a ghem line.

And the statement the ba had made about the Star Crèche’s interests was…interesting, even if he didn’t quite understand what the Star Crèche was. He turned the possibilities over in his head as he made his way back to the cubby. Quite interesting indeed.

* * *

As he turned the latest problems over in his head, Dag Benin watched Little Cat finish the training lunge with the two-year colt. Dag and the stable master held high hopes for the young horse, but even watching his horses wasn’t helping to relax Dag.

He was noticing that ghem-Lord Naru, his neighbor and feudal superior was spending a great deal of time off his land, passing through Dag’s holdings on his way to visit haut-Lord Ilsum Kety. Odd, but not exactly suspicious. What was suspicious was that he had managed to overhear a couple of their conversations when they met at his keep, and they had been less than loyal, but not disloyal enough he felt confident in reporting them.

Also disturbing was his observation that the last two times Lord Naru passed through his lands, a child from the nearby village went missing. The villagers were whispering about a _geshe-ki_ , but no bodies had turned up, and there were no disappearances in villages not near his keep. And he knew who the whisperers were focusing on. Even though Little Cat had been inspected by every haut-Lady who passed by and kept coming up clean, there were still whispers. And he could understand them. Even if the Barrayaran’s demeanor was completely unlike any _geshe-ki_ Benin had ever encountered or heard of, he met the two key signs of being possessed by one. He was completely silent, as if his breath had been stolen, and was always constructing something odd, the purpose of which was incomprehensible. The young man had seven of those nettle shirts, and was constructing an eighth with a relief that was palpable, if not understandable.

He sighed, he wished Thya was here. His wife had a talent for putting things into perspective, but she was in seclusion prior to the birth of their first child.

Someone tapped on his shoulder. Dag suppressed a jump and turned about. Little Cat was standing there with a cup of water. He was in clean livery, apparently while Dag had been woolgathering, he had finished with the colt, cleaned both the horse and himself, and fetched water. He sighed again, and said, “Thank you, Little Cat.”

Sharp grey eyes assessed him, and then the little man seemed to come to a conclusion. Careful fingers gripped Dag’s tunic sleeve, and he found himself trailing after his servant, as if their roles were reversed. Dag shook his head. It was their normal interaction, terrifying as that might be.

Little Cat chivvied him into the corner of the barn he had staked out as his space. Due to fear of the _geshe-ki_ none of the other servants had been very willing to share space with the Barrayaran. No one had been willing to go against the will of the Star Crèche, but after two nights Little Cat had moved out here, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief. Two of the barn cats, one of them a beautiful black creature looking as if she was a fae cat and that had been in the exact same place virtually every time Dag entered the barn when Little Cat was out, stretched, yawned, and greeted the short man who had been given their name.

Giving him a stern look, Little Cat pointed at the stacked bales of hay, indicating that Dag should be seated while also indicating that he wasn’t going anywhere until the Barrayaran gave him permission. Shaking his head, Dag did, although he said, “You do know that I am the master of the household.” Little Cat waved this off airily as he sat on a stack that was perpendicular to the one Dag was seated on.

With an assessing look, the Barrayaran pointed to his ear, then at his chest. When Dag looked confused, he pointed at his mouth, then at Dag, and repeated the first gesture. Oh, he wanted Dag to tell him what the matter was. Dag opened his mouth to tell the other man it was none of his business, but then closed it. Little Cat had the most incredible knack for discovering things anyway, and this wouldn’t be the first time he had spoken to the Barrayaran when Thya was unavailable. Matters just had never been as serious as this. He began to explain.

When he finished, Little Cat and the fae cat, which had wandered back in, were watching him with the most uncannily similar expressions on their faces. Finally, Little Cat went and picked up the lid to a pot of leather-soap. Making the universal gesture for go, he then flashed two fingers up, and then pointed to the lid. Go two lid? No, go to top. Go to the top. “The haut governor of Eta Ceta district?” he asked, knowing that Little Cat wouldn’t be sending him to his immediate superior or to any ghem authority. To his surprise, the little man shook his head no. But that meant… “The Emperor?” Dag breathed. An emphatic nod.

While Dag was trying to pull together an explanation, Little Cat looked him in the eyes, and flashed a two, then a one, two, three. That communication needed no thought. It was one of the man’s more common ones. In this case, he was saying it was too easy to make excuses.

Shaking his head, Dag said, “I’ll do it. On your head be it if something terrible happens.” He paused, and said, “I wish I knew who you were, before you became what you currently are.”Little Cat gave a slight headshake of his own, and stood up to go about his business.

Dag didn’t know how much he would regret his comment about terrible events later.

* * *

Miles awoke disoriented. The ba quarters in the Cetagandan Imperial palace were far too quiet for the taste of someone who was used to the noises of a full stable or the sounds of a forest. He had no idea why Benin had brought him along on his journey to speak with the Cetagandan Emperor, and couldn’t exactly ask. Hand gestures could only communicate so much, and his quizzical looks had been politely ignored. But he could see the end of his years of silence, the weaving was almost done, and not too soon. The six years were almost up.

Just as he started drifting back to sleep, he felt the brush of a spell being cast. He tried to move, but found he couldn’t move his limbs. He struggled briefly, but went still when he heard someone walking nearer. Extending his mind slightly, he quickly pulled back at the sting of some fairly nasty shields. Whoever they were, they weren’t interested in just blocking, but in damaging anyone who tried to look in. But he had been able to tell there were two of them. Deciding to play unaware, he closed his eyes and tried to relax, aiming for the illusion of sleep.

He heard whoever it was stand by his bed. A voice, Naru’s, he recognized, said, “He’s here.”

Someone else said, in a surprisingly light voice, in stark contrast to the vicious, dark rage in it, said, “Good. I have wanted this moment to occur since I discovered the little bastard was living an easy life here.”

Miles bit down the rage and forced himself to remain relaxed. This man obviously had never paid any attention to his servants, or he would know how much work servants did even in a well run, well kept household. He felt someone pick up his right hand, and begin to smear something wet on it. Naru asked, “You will take the prince to the Ilse-de-Keitaren estate?”

“As agreed,” the other voice, probably Galen, said. The right hand was set down, and the left one picked up. “And we will all get what we want.” The left hand was put down. There was the sound of footsteps, and wetness around his mouth. Then Naru and Galen left. 

Miles tried to move as soon as he was certain they were gone, but was still paralyzed. Relaxing again, he sniffed gingerly to see if he could catch the scent of whatever the fluid was. The smell sent him into fierce struggles against the spell that was keeping him paralyzed. The fluid was blood.

He forced himself to relax and think. It was obvious now what Galen was getting out of this. He was getting Miles dead and his family permanently cursed. Naru was getting Benin discredited before his ideas could gain much credence, and both Naru and Kety could benefit from suspicion falling on the Star Crèche, who had given Miles sponsorship. And then there were the effects on the Emperor to consider. He tried not to remember the execution of a geshe-ki he had witnessed. The being had been terrifying.

An hour before dawn, the spell dissolved. He sprung up and went looking for a fountain, pump, bathing chamber, any place that would have something to wash the blood off. He barely got out of the room when he tripped over something. Standing, he realized it was the body of a ba. The course of his luck held. He turned the corridor and walked directly into the arms of a pair of guards. One struck him on the head, and as he fell into unconsciousness, he hoped that they would at least leave him his weaving, because that would give him six more days to finish it.

* * *

The morning dawned unseasonably cold. Dag welcomed it, the cold gave him something to focus on besides the knowledge that Little Cat was going to be executed as _geshe-ki_ possessed. He had been very rudely taken to an audience with the Emperor shortly after dawn six days ago. He shivered when he remembered the coldness in Emperor Giaja’s eyes.

_“Lord Benin. The Crown Prince disappeared last night and a valued ba servitor was murdered at the same time. This morning, your servant was discovered bloody handed and having apparently had a bloody meal in the night. My Consort and Bride have analyzed the blood, and determined that it belonged to the ba and my son.” The Emperor had paused, devastatingly, and said, “Even if they cannot detect signs of Ancient-possession, it is known that the most and least powerful have methods to hide from detection. The boy will be executed. We cannot risk leaving an Ancient alive.”_

Dag had then been ordered to leave for his residence in the Imperial Capital, outside the boundaries of Faerie. He had no idea if his warnings about Naru would even be heeded, now, and that pain was almost worse than anything else, that he had placed both himself and Little Cat into this position for nothing.

He understood why Emperor Giaja had passed down the sentence. Even if he hated it, and knew without understanding how that Little Cat wasn’t possessed by a _geshe-ki_.

He looked around, and swore. He had made his way to the pyre lands. The logs of _tirkana_ and _leashen_ were prepared, as only a fire built of those woods would suppress the powers of a _geshe-ki_ for the creature to die with its host, and only after being exposed to the smoke of those woods for six days and if all their works were burned with them. 

He turned to leave, but then decided to stay, he could witness if nothing else.

By noon, crowds had arrived, as they did for every execution. Fortunately, everyone was giving him a wide berth, because he wasn’t certain how he would react if anyone spoke to him. There was a stirring in the crowd, the gates of Faerie had opened, and the cart would be coming out. In the distance, he heard a wolf- no, two wolves- howl and a bear roar. 

While time had seemed to drag the past six days, it suddenly sped. The wagon holding Little Cat drew to the prepared area before it seemed possible that it had even passed the gates. Little Cat himself was inside the cage working frantically on that eighth nettle shirt. The Imperial Party of Emperor, veiled haut ladies, and attendants preceded the wagon towards the stake.

Suddenly, a stag he was startled to recognize as the same one they had been hunting three years ago when they found Little Cat in the forest near Komarr leaped over the piled wood. The stag bounded towards the prison wagon, and the imprisoned man pushed his arms through the gaps and flung the shirt at the stag. It flew through the air as if enchanted, and from the reactions of the haut ladies, it was. It settled on the stag, and suddenly there was a handsome young man in rags standing where the beast had been.

A pair of hawks and a blue tit dove suddenly, and soon shirts settled on them as well, transforming the hawks into a crippled middle aged man and a dignified blonde woman the same age as the man. The blue tit turned into a graceful, dignified noblewoman with a distinct resemblance to the young man. A lynx and fox arrived, and became a red haired woman who looked to be of Betharan extraction and a brown haired man with the look of a spy. A bear became a bearlike man with a face that looked like someone had been mining it, or mining with it.

Finally a pair of wolves burst into the area, and became… Dear gods, those were the Emperor of Barrayar and his chief advisor and foster father Aral Vorkosigan. The Emperor of Barrayar had disappeared six years ago, along with the entire Vorkosigan family and several of their retainers, along with the third in line to the throne and his mother, Ivan Vorpatril. This must be related to the curse on Little Cat who-

Who had a silly grin on his face. He was gazing from one person to the next with a look of giddy joy that was released in a severely raspy laugh, mixing profound joy with great relief. The red haired Betharan, who must be Cordelia Vorkosigan, relieved one of the guards of his keys, unlocked the door of the cage and she and Lord Vorkosigan quickly leaped into the cage to embrace Little Cat, which meant that Little Cat…was Piotr Miles Vorkosigan, third in line for the Barrayaran Imperial throne.

Lord and Lady Vorkosigan stood back, and as he moved forward, wanting to actually talk with his former servant at least once, Emperor Gregor and Lord Ivan moved forward to greet their cousin. Lord Ivan was limping, and he saw that under the rags one of his legs appeared not to be jointed correctly. Lord Piotr noticed this as well, and looked horrified. On seeing that look, Lord Ivan walked right up to him and, gripping his shoulders, said, “Don’t you dare feel guilty about this, Miles,” Miles? But Lord Ivan was continuing, “For such an intelligent person, you can be such an idiot at times. You did everything humanly possible, and some things that aren’t to finish the shirts in time. I’m human, and not a deer. We’re all human. That’s all that matters.”

Lord Piotr, or possibly Miles, gave a small smile, and gave his cousins a heartfelt embrace each, whispering something into Emperor Gregor’s ear. Then he turned to Emperor Giaja, stood, and walked out of the cage to a distance of about seven feet. He gave a slight bow, and then said, looking Giaja directly in the eye, “Celestial Lord Fletchir Giaja, my Imperial Master wishes to open negotiations for safe return to Barrayar.”

“You are bold, to stand in the livery of my own service, and demand negotiations, Lord Piotr," Emperor Giaja said.

“Lord Miles, for even though my honored grandfather, the Count Vorkosigan, is deceased, I will not claim the title without confirmation, nor will I use the name he saw fit to deny me, and never returned. As for demands,” he shrugged, “It is said in both Barrayar and Cetaganda that a cat may look at the Emperor and make any demand once. As the Honored Lord, Dag Benin re-Thir, saw fit to name me a cat, I believe one reasonable request granted is not too much to ask.”

Emperor Giaja nodded gravely his assent, although there was a stunned look in his eyes, and Emperor Gregor stepped forward beside his cousin. Before he stepped back, Lord Miles said, “There is one more matter. The ghem-Lord Naru and haut-Lord Ilsum Kety are traitors to your empire. It was they who kidnapped the Crown Prince and murdered the ba, with the aid of a renegade Komarran sorcerer. While uncovering the full extent of the treason is an internal Cetagandan matter, while Lord Naru and the sorcerer were framing me, it was mentioned that the Crown Prince was to be taken to the Ilse-de-Keitaren estate.” Turning to Dag, he said, “I do not know if the two children stolen from Vere-tsa Village are also there, but I don’t believe they were killed.” The Emperor blinked.

“You will just give Us this information, for nothing? You could have held it hostage for negotiations, and you simply hand it over.”

Lord Miles simply said, “Children should not be used as pawns in the power games of their elders. A hopelessly idealistic sentiment, I know, but it is one I firmly believe in.” He turned and walked towards Dag, and said, quietly, “Now, Lord Benin, I believe I have some pay due. Let us negotiate a trade.”

Dag smiled and prepared for a long, involved negotiation.

* * *

The horses were beautiful animals, but all Ivan was thinking about was what a pain riding was when you hadn’t done it in six years and were trying to adjust to a new joint structure in your left leg. Well, that and the incredibly smug look the fae cat Miles had been given by her mother had and how off-key Miles’s whistling was.

He still didn’t understand the cat. Miles had been talking with that Dag Benin and this black glossy cat just appeared out of nowhere with a kitten in her mouth. She set the kitten down and stared at Miles for a few moments. Miles had stared back, then said, “Thank you for the thought, Strange Lightning Field. You can be certain I will take care of Nosey.” Then Miles had picked up the kitten, the mother cat went and vanished, and Miles and Benin had returned to their talk like nothing had happened.

They were riding mortal horse-spirit horse crossbreeds. The two geldings that Aral and Gregor were riding, as well as the mare Miles was and an additional one were all Miles’s, the rest were borrowed and Miles had assured Benin that he would release them once they were in Komarr. He had negotiated with Benin for them, and then turned around and gave the incredibly impressive golden gelding to Gregor, with a comment about how he was going to need something impressive when they got back to Barrayar.

Miles changed tunes, or at least began butchering the same one so badly it wasn’t even recognizable, and Ivan snapped, “You would think that six years with whistling being the only sound you could make would improve your sense of pitch. What are you so infernally cheerful about?”

Miles grinned at Ivan and said, “What’s not to be cheerful about? I’m alive, you’re all human again, I’ve gotten great information on Cetaganda, we’re going back home, and as soon as we get everything straightened out there, I’ve got a brother to rescue and an evil sorcerer to defeat! Life is wonderful!”

Ivan found himself a part of an eight way look of complete horror. He was the only one to voice what everyone was thinking, however. “You, cousin, are a complete and utter _lunatic_!”


End file.
